


The Smile I Keep To Myself

by summersixtytwo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Internal, Private School, Triumvirate, rebellious students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summersixtytwo/pseuds/summersixtytwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac get into trouble with Headmaster Javert for starting a riot at their school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smile I Keep To Myself

“…not to mention a gross vandalisation of private property!”

I’m only half-listening to the headmaster’s droning, apathy and fury adding to the blood roaring through my ears to make paying attention impossible. I stare at him from a perfectly constructed marble mask of hatred, loathing his round glasses and toupe and his richly-decorated office, complete with ornate leather furniture and taxidermy. This room, this man, they radiate everything I hate about this place. I feel sick to my stomach just being here.

I feel a nudge at my side and find the source, my best friend Combeferre, glancing from me to the man looming over us. Courfeyrac, our brother-in-arms, mirrors Ferre's movements behind him as Headmaster Javert clears his throat.

“I said, Enjolras,” I turn at the use of my name, “I take it you were the ringleader of the latest act of this childish circus? Taciturn little sir, incapable of being a normal teenage miscreant who rebels against his parents by getting drunk. No, not our Enjolras! He needs to try to overthrow the government. And just look at his accomplishments: our young revolutionary, in championing his noble cause, lands himself nowhere further than the headmaster’s hot-seat!”

I nod curtly, confirming the question preceding his derisive tirade, trusting myself enough to know that flames of passion will roar from my mouth if it opens. I was in charge of the march, it’s true, and after three years of making trouble with Javert I’m growing numb to his badly-worded mockery. Courfeyrac, however, is not, and I can feel his eyes bore into my left temple. I can picture the dumbfounded expression he’s wearing without having to turn. Enjolras is giving in?

Javert tuts patronisingly and the sound goes straight to my fingers, which twitch with the urge to rip off his goddamned moustache. “Well, Master Enjolras,” he drawls, “father won’t be too pleased with us now, will he?”

I feel bile rising in my throat and I resent that to my core but, judging by the expectant look on Javert’s face evolving into one of disappointment, my impassive mask is holding and I didn’t give him the reaction he wanted. True, my father’s money is the only reason I haven’t been expelled from this godforsaken school, and it’s great to raise as much hell as I want and just be let off with a warning, but it brackets me in with the rest of the privileged private-school vermin who infest this world, those who never have and never will want for anything, who I’ve been fighting against for the past 17 years.

“To be fair, sir,” Combeferre breaks my reverie, “we were merely raising awareness for the needs of others. Charity and selflessness are hardly criminal offences. We have an unbelievable privilege at this school and it definitely doesn’t hurt to reach out to those who don’t. And besides, we only planned a peaceful protest march. Nothing was meant to get… out of hand.”

“And yet…” Javert turns his tablet to face us so we can see the aftermath of our ‘peaceful protest’: trashed classrooms, broken windows, burnt shells of what once may have been cars, red paint on the front of the school building screaming “BOURGEOIS SCUM!” (my personal favourite), and worst (best) of all: a dozen classrooms’ worth of desks, chairs, cupboards, etc. piled into a massive barricade in the quad. I almost smirk at the last one - a brilliant idea, really, which I make a mental note of. So the crowd may have gone a bit overboard; we were still doing something to make a change. And I’m damned if my heart isn’t swelling with pride right now. Courf chuckles for a second or two until Combeferre fixes him with his stern-mother look, after which he shuts up and fiddles with his blazer buttons for the rest of our sentencing.

“Obviously, my first port of call would be to expel you all immediately.” Javert looks at each of us in turn. “Unfortunately,” he glares at Combeferre, who nervously tugs at his collar as the tension in the room gets too hot for him, “I’m not at liberty to do so as this is your first offence, and it would be unfair to rid myself of two of you and not the other. So, it is my deepest displeasure to inform you that you are all off with an extreme warning and 12 hours of both detention and community service.”

I don’t respond apart from a glace up at the headmaster and a swift nod, but Ferre’s deflation and Courf’s loud sigh at being let off so lightly are clearly answer enough for Javert who reclines, satisfied. “You may go.”

We don’t need to be told twice and all three of us mutter thank yous and scuttle (although I, being a veteran of these close shaves, manage it with more dignity and finesse.) My companions sprint down the hallway and practically leap outside as I follow close behind with far less enthusiasm. As soon as we reach the field, Courfeyrac grabs a startled Combeferre by the waist and hoists him over his shoulder, screaming and spinning him around until they tumble and collapse into a heaving pile of thrashing limbs. I stand over them, a mildly concerned parent keeping a wary eye on his two unreliably mature sons, shaking my head slightly at the quivering mess at my feet. I allow myself a discreet, fleeting grin, watching as Courf rolls panting onto his back, and Ferre sits up, wipes his eyes and rights his glasses. Ready to overthrow a fascist regime one moment, tickling each other to tears the next. Who knew radicals could be such kids?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months back for my English class. My teacher is probably a Les Mis fan because I got 100%. Nice.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope it's okay. Again, come say hi on social media:  
> twitter- vlagden  
> tumblr- jarvistakethewheel  
> insta- summersixtytwo
> 
> xxx


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